The Whispers

22: About Last Night

"Change can be frightening, and the temptation is often to resist it. But change almost always provides opportunities - to learn new things, to rethink tired processes, and to improve the way we work." - Klaus Schwab, German engineer.

"Rose?"

Am I dead? Is someone from beyond speaking to me? Since the afterlife seems to be real, now all I have to do is wait for Maggie. Unless I'm in hell for my sins, then she'd surely go to heaven. She never took hard drugs, tried to have premarital sex, and the die in a bathtub due to a cut on her foot.

"Rose?" Shouldn't I be seeing a light of some sort? I'm not sure - I haven't exactly died before and I'm not sure if I should believe what I've heard from living people about death. "Why are you in here?"

Maybe I'm not dead.

"Open your eyes," I recognize the voice. It's Harper. Harper came back for me. The box will be here, too, I'm sure of it. "I have food, I'll take of you if you just wake up."

I force my eyes to pry themselves open. I look down and the tub is completely clean - a loofah is lying next to me with a splash of a red stain on it but that's it. I'm not bathing in my own blood.

"Did you clean?" I ask him. I look up to see his hair pushed back in a baseball cap and his eyes wide. I hate baseball caps, they give people hat hair, and hat hair reminds me of mullets. Mullets are terrible inventions and I don't know why they're even a thing. They don't look good, they seem as if they take too much upkeep, and the mere fact that someone thought it would be a good idea to cut their hair in such a way makes me angry.

"No," he shook his head. "Should I have?"

"Where's all the blood?" I ask. He had to be fucking with me - it was everywhere, I swear. I don't understand where it went. Why didn't I drown in it after I fell asleep? Why aren't my clothes stained with it?

"Huh?" Harper looks as if he genuinely doesn't know what I'm talking about. "There was a smear of red stuff on the floor when I came in but I didn't think much of it. Are you hurt?"

"My foot..." I look down to see a small sliver on my instep where the razor had cut into me. There's dried blood around it but nothing in the bathtub. It's possible none of this happened and my schizophrenia is getting worse - I should probably be checked out by a doctor and admitted. That's the best option. Another option would be to just stay here and continue what Harper and I have been doing for... god, I don't even know how long. Days? Weeks? Time is passing by so quickly my head hurts. "My foot was bleeding."

"It looks okay now," his fingers brush my ankle as he inspects the wound. "Here, I'll carry you to the kitchen, I've got food. Lots and lots of food."

I didn't protest when he dipped his arm beneath my legs and pressed me to his chest in a bridal hold. My head feels like it's on fire and I groan.

"I know you're starving, I'm sorry," Harper talks but it feels like he's screeching in my ears. "You'll eat soon. I got you cereal. Do you want cereal? Or do you want eggs? Toast? I got a lot so you won't run out for a while."

This is all too much. Too quick, too loud, to invasive for this morning. I thought I was dead, for crying out loud, and he's worried about whether or not I want cereal?

I'd much rather be mentally stable, but apparently that's too much to ask for.

"Thank you," I managed to speak. I don't understand why he did this. For one thing, I should be dead in a bathtub of blood; for another, all Harper and I have been doing is taking drugs together. He shouldn't be buying me food. He shouldn't be trying to take care of me. I get that he feels guilty but he doesn't owe me anything, nor do I owe him.